Michael Eisner's choice of Eminem was simple.
First, because every attack needs someone to launch it.
Second, because Eminem was already infamous across North America.
The first point didn't need explaining.
The second one, though…
If Eisner and his crew sent a normal person to slander Isabella—say, some tabloid editor writing an article called "Isabella, the Princess of Greed"—there would be two possible public reactions:
One, people might believe it, and Isabella would get scolded by the masses.
Two, people might not believe it, and instead they'd tear the writer apart online.
And the second outcome was far more likely.
Because Isabella had a sterling reputation. And, to be blunt, her age was her best shield.
When a girl is only thirteen, who's going to believe she's acting out of greed?
She hasn't even been to America yet.
Would someone scheming for profit really behave like that?
Exactly.
So, if an unknown person came forward to smear her, the narrative could flip instantly, and Warner or Disney could easily redirect the wind with a few press statements.
To avoid that failure, they needed someone famous, someone with influence and a fanbase—because fans, well...
Fans are often blind. They believe whatever their idol says.
That kind of faith ensures that any slanderous statement gets massive public traction right from the start.
Then the media can jump in and stir up chaos.
And soon enough, the "greedy child star" label would be stuck to Isabella like glue.
Given that, was there anyone in North America more suitable than Eminem?
No one.
Because everyone knew Eminem went off the rails regularly—it was normal for him to lash out at anyone.
That made people overlook whether Isabella's "attack" was part of some larger scheme.
Everyone knew he had a legion of diehard fans who'd back him no matter who he targeted.
That meant the smear campaign would be met with instant support.
And since he worked for little Bronfman, Eisner saw him as a loyal gun to point at his enemies.
As for why Eisner didn't just use his "nuclear option" from the start—why not blame Warner and Disney directly for exploiting Isabella?
Well…
Eisner's ultimate goal was to reclaim Disney, not destroy it.
He still wanted to be the King of Disney.
Not its executioner.
"The question is—can this plan actually work?"
The next day, at Universal's headquarters, little Edgar Bronfman had just returned to California and summoned his subordinate, Doug Morris, the chairman of Universal Music.
Morris frowned slightly after hearing his boss's request. He nodded, then shook his head.
"Boss, we can have Eminem attack Isabella," he said. "But if it fails… Eminem might end up—well—finished."
Eminem's reputation was already a mess.
Sure, his last album The Eminem Show sold twenty million copies, but after Mariah Carey publicly hit back, and with so many new rivals rising, if he went after yet another big name…
His career could collapse.
That album might turn out to be the peak of his life.
Morris didn't want that. Universal's profits still depended heavily on him.
But—
"Doug, how long do you plan to keep that trashy rapper around?" Bronfman said coldly.
"I know what you're thinking—you're afraid Universal's financials will tank without him. But let's be honest: a rapper's career lasts, what, a few years?"
"They run their mouths, cause trouble, and sooner or later, they get themselves killed."
"Did you forget the East Coast–West Coast feud?"
"It tanked every label that got involved."
That feud, ten years ago, had torn American hip-hop apart.
The details were complicated, but in short: East Coast rappers and West Coast rappers hurled insults, issued challenges, then started real gunfights.
It became one of the bloodiest chapters in pop music history.
2Pac and Biggie's beef ended with both of them dead, and their files still sit in a special case in the FBI archives.
They were just the most famous casualties; plenty of others never made the news.
And that's the real reason hip-hop still can't fully enter the mainstream.
Western society already has loose morals, but even so—constant shootings? Endless deaths?
Ridiculous.
So in Bronfman's eyes, Eminem had no future.
Because every time he attacked someone, that person had their own fanatic followers.
If he pushed the wrong one too far, he might end up with a bullet in his head.
And an unstable future has zero value to capital.
So, to a chess master like Bronfman, using Eminem as a weapon wasn't a risk. It was waste management.
"I understand."
Doug Morris finally nodded. If the boss had decided, arguing was pointless.
But he added, "Boss, we can have Eminem attack Isabella—but not directly order him to."
"Because that's dangerous. He's unpredictable. If he senses manipulation, he could drag us all down with him. So…"
He paused deliberately, watching for Bronfman's reaction.
"Go on," Bronfman said, tilting his chin.
Encouraged, Morris continued: "Eminem once told me Mariah Carey couldn't take him to the top—he really wants to go after MJ."
"So, since he already wants to start another fight, I'll talk to him. Guide him. Suggest that instead of going after Michael Jackson… maybe he should aim at Isabella."
"And honestly, it won't be hard. I've got an insider in his company."
"They told me—he doesn't like Isabella."
"Perfect." Bronfman's eyes gleamed. "It's yours to handle."
He waved Morris away, satisfied.
Still, even with Eminem secured, Eisner's plan wasn't bulletproof.
Because from the very start, he'd known—Eminem wasn't the hardest part.
The real problem was Michael Arndt, the screenwriter of Little Miss Sunshine.
Why?
Simple.
Because the guy was normal.
He had a brain. And people with brains can calculate risk.
And indeed—
When Eisner's people approached him, Arndt immediately thought their smear proposal was insane.
He'd seen The Voice and knew it had nothing to do with his film.
He also knew how powerful Isabella had become—messing with her could mean vanishing from the industry altogether.
But as he was about to reject them—
Eisner's man held up two fingers.
"Two million dollars," he said.
"As long as you're willing to publicly criticize Isabella, you'll get two million. We'll pay in advance."
"And Michael—don't you want revenge? On Isabella? On Chris Columbus?"
"They stole your script, didn't they?"
"They butchered your work, didn't they?"
Arndt fell silent.
He'd known when Spielberg's people bought his story that it would probably be rewritten.
He'd braced himself.
But still—seeing his "child" butchered hurt.
Selling a script is like selling your child; seeing it mutilated afterward feels like an insult.
If they only wanted the skeleton of his story, why not write their own?
But—
He couldn't fight back.
Not against Isabella.
Not against Spielberg.
Not against the capital controlling Hollywood.
"I'm sorry," he finally said. "I'd love to take the money, but I'd rather be alive to spend it."
After a long mental struggle, he refused.
He knew the men in front of him had powerful backers—but he didn't want to work with cowards hiding behind shadows.
Because in the world of capital, secrecy meant weakness.
The truly strong attacked in the open.
"I, Rockefeller, want you gone—who agrees? Who objects?"
That's how the powerful moved.
But as Arndt stood to leave, Eisner's man raised three fingers this time.
"Three million," he said. "And you don't even have to slander her."
"All you have to do is tell a story on camera. From your past."
"That shouldn't be difficult, right?"
Arndt froze.
The man smiled.
Eisner's team had always known Arndt was educated—too smart to openly lie about Isabella.
So they'd planned a fallback: if he refused to smear, they'd pay him simply to "share a story."
For three million dollars, almost anyone would.
"I'll think about it," Arndt said finally.
Tempted, but cautious.
But the man smiled again.
"Money first," he said.
As they walked out of the café together, he continued:
"Three million dollars will appear before 6 p.m. today—split into eight different transfers from eight different companies, labeled under 'script purchase,' 'creative support,' and other categories."
"You'll have two hours to verify."
"Then, by 9 p.m., you'll be at LAX. Your flight leaves at 9:40."
"You'll land in New York by 7 a.m."
"There, someone will pick you up holding a sign with your name."
"You'll finish the job within six hours."
"After that, you can vacation in Sri Lanka or India—we know you lived in both places before. Pleasant memories, right?"
"Your tickets are already booked for two days later."
"Or, if you'd rather, you can visit your family in Virginia. I'm sure they miss you."
By the time they reached the door, Arndt's eyes were wide.
The precision of it all—the accounts, the flights, the knowledge of his past—told him one thing.
There was no saying no.
So—
He ran home.
Checked his accounts.
And sure enough, by early evening, eight separate payments totaling three million dollars appeared, each with a neat little corporate explanation.
By nightfall, Arndt was at the airport.
As the engines roared to life, the world turned to June 21, 2003.
New York was bathed in sunlight.
That morning, crowds were already gathering outside the Disney Fan Club building.
Smiling boys and girls, there for The Voice auditions.
Among them was Lana Del Rey.
Unlike many others, she'd come alone—her uncle couldn't accompany her because of a last-minute job call from his school.
He'd been apologetic, but Lana didn't mind. She was used to solitude.
As she waited in line, softly humming her audition song to get in the mood—
"Elisabeth Grant?"
A voice called her name.
She looked up to see a staff member smiling, an ID badge around his neck.
He held a stack of papers in his left hand—the registration forms, probably—and his right hand was held politely behind his back.
"Yes, I'm Elisabeth," she said. "Is there something wrong?"
"Not at all."
The man's eyebrows lifted with a cheerful grin.
He revealed what was in his right hand—a small gift box, palm-sized.
"If your information's correct," he said, "then today's your eighteenth birthday."
"Happy birthday."
"Oh—thank you!"
Lana's face lit up.
It really was her birthday.
She accepted the little box—it was light, but that didn't matter. It was the first birthday gift she'd ever received as an adult.
The exchange drew the attention of people around her.
Whispers rippled through the line as the staffer smiled again.
"Go on," he said. "Open it."
"Alright."
Without hesitation, she tore open the package.
Soon, a beaver badge holding a birthday cake appeared before everyone.
On top of the cake were the curved words: "Happy Birthday."
"Oh—this is—"
Lana Del Rey covered her mouth and gasped.
The staff just smiled and nodded, a quiet "good luck" implied.
Simple as the blessing was, Lana Del Rey was overjoyed.
Biting her lip, her hands slightly trembling, she pinned the badge to her shirt.
Maybe it was because it was her birthday, but she looked stunning today—
a white blouse, green suspenders, jeans, little sandals.
At first glance, she radiated so much youthful energy it almost hit you in the face.
At the same time, she had tied up the hem of her shirt in a knot,
and with that tiny detail, all the warmth and boldness in her bones came spilling out.
But no matter how bright and lively she looked, once that badge was on, she somehow just turned adorable.
A magical little beaver could make everyone look like one of its own.
"Whoa—that's Miss Beaver—"
"God, birthday contestants get badges too?"
"I want one of those!"
The moment the gift was revealed, the waiting room's mood changed completely.
The eruption of envy made Lana beam with pride. For a second, she felt like a chosen one—everyone's eyes were on her.
The staff, meanwhile, smiled and made sure to spread the warmth evenly.
"Everyone, no need to be upset or jealous."
"Everyone gets a badge."
"As long as you registered for the show, whether you pass auditions or not, you'll get a little blind box when you leave."
"Inside are badges with all kinds of designs."
"Of course, the 'birthday blessing' one isn't included—this is a special gift."
"But don't lose heart. If you make it through, pass a round, and happen to have a birthday during the competition,
you'll get your gift then. So come on, everyone—whatever your dreams are, we hope they come true…"
The news that everyone would get something made the crowd happy again.
The kind wishes lifted spirits; people smiled and thanked the staff.
But none of that mattered much to Lana Del Rey.
Once she'd put on the beaver badge, she felt transformed.
The stares, the chatter, the congratulations—everything made her float a little.
It wasn't until the staff called her name that she snapped back,
realizing she'd completely forgotten all the prep she was supposed to do before her audition.
Panicking inside—"oh no, oh no"—Lana walked into the audition studio with her nerves buzzing.
The mentors' watchful eyes and the crew's curious glances made her tense,
but once the judges smiled, wished her a happy birthday, and started chatting,
she began to relax.
She told them about her past—how she'd gone astray but was saved by her family.
That story caught their attention.
Then she talked about her music—how it helped her climb out of a dark place.
The judges loved that.
Then came her song.
Her lazy, sultry voice earned unanimous praise.
"Lana Del Rey, right? Congratulations, you've passed the audition!"
"Oh—thank you—"
The easy victory made her glow.
A staffer led her backstage to fill out more forms and pick up her contestant gift.
When she opened the box and found a "beaver on the beach" badge inside, she was delighted all over again.
On her way home, she couldn't wait to share the good news with her family and friends over the phone.
Everyone was thrilled for her, some even inviting her out that night.
They all knew it was her birthday—but the auditions were just the start.
The real journey would begin at the city round, then the state, then nationals.
There was a long road ahead.
So, she decided to stay home and practice singing…
"Hey! Elizabeth! Don't be such a bore, okay?"
"It's your eighteenth birthday! You're really not coming out?"
Her friend's voice yelled through the phone,
"One night out won't kill you! Just drink less if you're worried! Or fine, no bars—let's just hit a club and dance a bit, okay? Come on!"
Lana hesitated.
Ever since her parents made her uncle keep an eye on her,
she hadn't really gone out wild in ages.
Honestly… she even thought her uncle leaving town two days ago might be fate's way of giving her a chance.
After all, going wild on your eighteenth birthday is practically a rite of passage in the West.
"Alright, I'll call you," she said at last.
Humming a tune, she started thinking about where to go that night.
Then, suddenly, someone nearby shouted—
"Wow~~ what an inspiring story!"
The voice made her instinctively turn her head.
She was on an intercity bus heading toward Brooklyn.
Right now, it was stopped at a traffic light—180 seconds to go.
On the street corner stood a small newsstand.
The owner was fiddling with an old black-and-white TV that still used an antenna.
As he turned up the volume, a crackly male voice came through the speaker—
"Yes, after graduating, I went straight into Hollywood.
But at first, I wasn't a screenwriter—I was an assistant. You know Matthew Broderick? I was his assistant.
A screenwriter being someone's assistant sounds funny, doesn't it?"
"I followed him around for four or five years,
and then one day in '99, I quit, because I watched a film called Ride with the Devil—yes, the one directed by Ang Lee."
"The same Ang Lee who directed Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon."
"I'm not judging whether it was a good film or not. I just want to say—Ang Lee was sort of my classmate.
He graduated from NYU in '84 and was unemployed until 1990,
but he never gave up, because he just wanted to be a director."
"His persistence reminded me of what my teacher once said:
if you want to be a director, you have to keep writing scripts.
Directing is telling stories with a camera,
and writing is creating stories with words.
If you stop writing and just do other jobs,
by the time you want to direct, you'll have forgotten how to tell stories."
"That quote made me pick up the pen again and start writing.
Then, in the summer of 2000, I wrote a story about a talent show.
In 2001, the Endeavor Agency took interest in it.
I wanted them to invest, but… they sold my script instead,
sometime in the winter of 2001."
"I was disappointed, because I never got to direct it."
"But…"
"I was also happy."
"Because the buyer made a great film out of it."
"It did really, really well."
The story was indeed inspiring, and Lana Del Rey raised an eyebrow.
But it wasn't her concern, so she tried to tune it out and think about her night plans—
until the bus started moving again and she heard the newsstand owner mutter to himself—
"A story about a talent show? Did really well? Wait… is he talking about The Voice?"
"There's only been one talent-show movie these past two years, right?"
"But The Voice was written by Hermione Granger, wasn't it?"
"What's his connection to it?"
"This guy's story sounds weird."
"???"
Lana Del Rey turned her head again, squinting.